Young Blood
by nlizzette7
Summary: "On a Sunday, they burn all the fabric that is pale blue." / Snippets of Katniss and Peeta.


**Young Blood **

**(song fic: **young blood by the naked and famous)

i. _we lie beneath the stars at night._

Katniss wanders as Peeta leans.

That's how it's been, how it will be – even without scraps of paper gathered in glass or the even trill of a microphone, calling death disguised by gleam.

He remembers holding his breath at the four beats of his name, a woman dressed like one of his decorated cakes, the grim reaper in a powdered wig. He remembers vomit rising to the back of his throat, remembers a thousand pair of eyes waiting to watch his death march upstage.

But he mostly remembers Katniss waiting where the end should have been.

(There isn't a time before the Games, and that's the short of it.)

* * *

ii. _our hands gripping each other tight._

Peeta wants to whisper this to her at night, parts his lips like some words just belong to a held breath and nothing else. She smells like butterscotch and whatever lives in the woods, all sugar and ashes – not like she belongs to him, just that she allowed Peeta a sliver.

He learned this through baking, back when the only thing he'd ever seen bleed was icing. He thinks, _an inch is still something more than nothing at all._

She often forgets, and he remembers for her, gathers what she leaves behind in a way that prouder men wouldn't. He'll start the game every time, even though it never makes her smile.

They sit cross-legged in the almost dark, like the children they never got to be.

"My name is Peeta Mellark," he'll whisper. "I built my bones in District Twelve." Peeta will touch the end of her braid, fingertips skimming. "I loved a girl to the end of the world, but that was never the point." It's the only time Katniss has ever looked so lost, eyes wide, baby hairs standing by her forehead, all caught in the glow. It makes Peeta look bigger when he wraps an arm around her, when he stretches and Katniss curls in. "I bake cakes."

He feels her lips twitch, and often that's enough.

"Your turn."

"My name is Katniss Everdeen." Her voice has been heavier lately. Death sentences twice written make the soul grow weary, he supposes. "When I was seventeen years old, District Twelve was my home." She draws into herself like the smoke will always dwell in her lungs. "Until I watched it burn." She digs her nose into his chest, smells dough and a sense of hope she will never understand. "A boy offered me bread once."

He holds his breath, hears her continue, "That was the entire point."

Outside, the rain falls steady and whispers, _it's true_.

* * *

iii. _you keep my secrets, hope to die._

There's a time when Katniss convinces him, "You're stronger than you think."

He's hers then. She seals it with the words.

* * *

iv. _promises, swear them to the sky._

After the burn of a final war, he clutches onto his Mockingjay, strokes her wilted wings.

"The Quarter Quell," she says, like it's new information, like they don't still dream of death and wake up halfway there. He takes his shirt off, and she imagines blood on every inch the light is touching. Katniss doesn't look away, though she's not watching either. "They didn't tell you a thing."

He smiles from ear to ear, even though leaning on his leg makes him wince. (Katniss thinks, _you don't know heartbroken until you know a boy like Peeta._) There's a dimple on his cheek when he claims, "Because I love you too much."

They don't talk about it again after that, just cling onto the remnants of a girl and a boy, strangers on a fast-moving train to hell. They didn't say it then, they don't say it now. _The past stripped us bare_.

Instead, Katniss kneels at the edge of the bed a bit too roughly, feels wood whine underneath her jerk forward. He stands in front of her, and she lays her hand flat on his chest, practices sliding her fingers up and down his skin, cocking her head for his catches of breath, shoving aside the awkward little jerks to prove to herself that she can be gentle.

_For Peeta._

"Soft?" she asks – because their language has always been that easy.

"Soft," Peeta whispers.

(After, she'll let him unravel her braid, and it'll mean more than all the rest combined.)

* * *

v. _the bittersweet beneath my teeth._

They don't fight often – because Peeta is _Peeta _and Katniss's wars come easier inside.

"Come on, Katniss."

Her knuckles turn white at the curl of one fist.

"I want you to stop feeling so bad for me," he continues. "If I didn't break then, I won't break now." (Neither of them mentions that it was all thanks to her.)

Katniss stares down at the wooden tabletop in wonderment of their skewed normalcy.

"I want you to stop feeling so bad for me," Peeta repeats, the only complaint he's had from the start.

Ten heartbeats and a drawn-in breath later, Katniss pulls him like one of her arrows, captures his lips in the savagely way that comes naturally to her, all teeth and shoved tongues. The boy with a heart sweeter than his pastries tries his hand at curling his fingers into her hair, nibbling at her throat.

He whimpers, and Katniss moans in surprise more than once.

His girl on fire, but she's cool against his skin.

* * *

vi. _trying to find the in-betweens._

On a Sunday, they burn all the fabric that is pale blue.

Hours after the embers become stars, he makes her crepes and watches how sloppily she eats them, blueberries kissing her fingertips with violet.

It gets easier then, on the days they lie in grass as clouds of Jabberjays fly over, singing songs of what is real and what is not until it becomes a single, steady chant.

Real, real, real.

In her head, Katniss remembers the words of a wise boy. _They can only recite what they've heard before._

* * *

vii. _fall back in love eventually._

There's a smudge on her forehead, and it takes Peeta longer than a minute to realize that it's flour.

He blinks, she blinks back.

"I burned the bread," Katniss explains, like that's the worst of it all. And he laughs, the sound coming rumbling from his chest to vibrate against his lips. She smiles in that mean way she sometimes does, all defensive and deliberate. Her hands are covered in white, and she smells like a bakery floor. She grimaces and shakes like she'd be more comfortable with swimming in dirt and blood.

Peeta drops to his knees and starts at her hands, always paying attention to the way her fingers are so calloused when his are not. He wipes her clean and feels her tense, like the moment is too tender for his braided knight.

When he's done, Peeta peers up at her. "You burned the bread."

She joins him on the floor, and their unbalanced love echoes a silent hum all around. _You don't deserve him, you don't deserve him, you don't – _

"I don't deserve you," Peeta says.

She's never exactly shy, it's just that he's the only one who's ever managed to surprise her. Peeta Mellark, of all people, could catch her weak – slay her easy and steal the bow right from her hands.

It's a shame that she's okay with that.

* * *

viii. _yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah._

(The cornucopia shatters in her dreams, but their world is still encased in glass.)

Katniss says, "The story was never ours."

It's not a reminder, just a simple fact.

Because there are bigger things, burning in his stove, breathing beyond her woods. Young blood soaks the Earth, souls whisper secrets of battles past, two little girls rise from ashes, spread out in fields of flowers and hum each other to sleep. Katniss and Peeta stand there, blanketed in the touch of every valiant boy and starry-eyed girl they've ever watched draw in their last breath. Those were the heroes.

Katniss and Peeta are the_ survivors_, and it's a label that burns inside.

And when Peeta holds her hand, she remembers the scar pressed to her palm.

He tells her, "Its ending was."

That's the short of it.

fin.


End file.
